With Love
by Whitelighter Enchantress
Summary: One parter, the letter. Warning: might be a lil tear jerkerish...


With Love  
by Whitelighter Enchantress

The early morning mist rolls low in the valley on this particular Saturday in April, spilling over the side of the mountain and undulating over the vast green field. A man wipes the chilling fog off the window, brushing the condensation on his black pants as he gazes out the window intently. With his other hand he fingers a parcel that has laid in his coat pocket for three days, ever since he found out. He can't bring himself to read it, let alone open it, but he carries it with him constantly. It clouds his every thought, haunts his dreams, and is why he must distract himself by means of evanescent fog drifting in the valley below him. He remembers playing in that valley many times as a young child, peering up with curiosity at the church stuck in the middle of a mountain. It seems odd to glare down instead of up.  
  
Somehow the look of the church intrigued him, and he often stopped to ponder it whether it be during a game of Hide and Go Seek, Tag, or Flag Football. He could never see it from his bedroom window: his room had faced the woods, not the valley and the mountain, so it turned into a special gift to run amok in the soft grasses.  
  
Now he sits staring out the church window reflecting on his more than happy childhood. Finally he notices how out of place his house looks just as he thinks the church does. The window begins to fog over again, but the man does not lift his hand to swipe it away; he prefers the memory of his house to the altered form now. How many years has it been since he moved out? Almost ten, he realizes with shock. Is he really twenty-seven years old?  
  
He misses being a ten-year-old, meeting his friends in the field to play, and hearing his mother's voice call him in for supper.  
  
He pictures her now, standing with one arm wrapped elegantly around the beam on the porch with her hair draped casually to one shoulder. She would glow against the dark, almost black wood of the house despite it being twilight. Even the crazy red roof could not outshine her, especially with her radiant smile as he would bound towards her and greet her with a bear hug.  
  
The porch is different now. Whoever lives there does not understand the mess of bikes, roller blades, and flower pots that used to reside there, should reside there, need to reside there.  
  
He suddenly feels overwhelmed by the memory of her and digs his hand deeper into his coat pocket, clutching the paper tighter, yet careful not to crumple it. He feels the tears welling in his eyes and he steadily rocks himself to gain composure. Never before has he wanted to read the letter so badly. He removes it from his pocket, stepping away from the window. Gingerly he places it onto the table and sits on the edge of the couch behind it. His feet tap; his hands bounce in his lap. Should he read it? Should he forgive her and comply to her to one last wish?  
  
He allows his eyes to focus on the name scribbled neatly on the outside. His eyes: the only thing still on his body. He wracks his brain for an answer, quickly finding himself twisting the gold band on his left ring finger, an old nervous habit.  
  
He glances briefly at his watch; there is still thirty minutes before the service starts. And no one will find him here in the room he discovered as a child while exploring one Sunday after church.  
  
His eyes wander over his name again as he lifts the letter from the table. Simply his first name, which seems odd to him, yet sentimental simultaneously. His fingers fumble with the envelope, and he sighs in preparation for reading it. It is time to forgive her, it is long past time to forgive her.  
  
_Dearest Andrew,  
  
I never wanted to have to write this letter to you. It was always something I tucked away in the back of my mind that I vaguely thought I'd never have to do. But you are my son; I should have known you'd never come around with your stubborn nature. Though if you are reading this letter, then we haven't really spoken in years. If you are reading this letter, then perhaps you have finally decided to forgive me. But if you are reading this letter, Andrew, then I am probably dead.  
  
There is so much that has gone unsaid over the past four years that needs saying. I just want you to understand what you refused to listen to those four years ago. This letter contains everything you know and and everything you don't know, so brace yourself because you might not expect what is coming.  
  
It all begins years before you were born, back when I lived in Los Angeles. I worked for the CIA then, as I told you, and I fell in love with my handler. He was my everything then; I would have died for him and I know he would have easily done the same for me. We shared such a love that I had never felt before. I didn't think such feelings existed until I met him, and I thought – no – knew we would last forever.  
  
We were planning a trip to Santa Barbara for the weekend, I was sure it would run smoothly. He was going to pick me up after his meeting, but I was never there to greet him. That night I was abducted by a rogue organization called the Covenant, but I had no idea. While he was at his meeting I learned my best friend was actually a clone working for the enemy, and we fought until I shot her and blacked out.  
  
The next thing I knew, I was waking up in an alley in Hong Kong. I went to a safe house where I met with my handler. I felt so relieved and happy to see him. I had been so terrifically scared, but I knew my love could fix all that. However, I was wrong. He told me he thought I was dead, everyone thought that. He told me two years had passed since that night. And a wedding ring on his finger told me that he was married. Moved on; without me.  
  
I was completely devastated. It was torturous each day to go and work with him and his wife because I still loved him with every fiber of my being. But how could he possibly still love me?  
  
About three months after my return we went on a mission in Paris. It was just the two of us on a simple task. No back-up men or anyone. And the intimacy led to other things, and our affair lasted one short night. When we came back to Los Angeles I knew things would never be the same. Any interaction with either him or his wife would be painfully awkward; already was prior to the incident. And what if he wanted to continue the affair? What if we kept succumbing to the feelings we knew we never lost? Part of me desperately wanted to keep it going. I secretly wished he would realize how stupid he was for marrying that awful woman and would divorce her. Always a loyal and honest man, I knew he would never leave his wife for me. And I did not want the title of home wrecker.  
  
I suppose I spoke too soon, because that's when I learned I was pregnant.  
  
Immediately I requested for a transfer and left that life behind. I told no one of my pregnancy; not my father, not even him. I couldn't do that. I know it must be difficult to understand, but promise me you'll try. I did not want to raise a child in Los Angeles as a CIA special agent, constantly running back and forth from country to country and shipping my baby from home to home. I couldn't allow your father to feel obligated to you, or even for you to ruin his marriage. I didn't want to be part of that life, and I refused you be part of that life. So I uprooted to central Pennsylvania and found a cottage at the base of a mountain for us to live. I worked in a much smaller office as an analyst, still in the CIA but in no danger.  
  
And just over eight months later I gave birth to you. October first, a beautiful six and half pound baby boy; I knew nothing would be the same again. We lived our lives carefree for years in our town in Pennsylvania. We lived happily in our own bubble of which I would murder anyone who even dared to burst it.  
  
The day you were born was both the happiest and saddest day of my life. The moment the nurse handed you to me I cried so hard, overwhelmed by extreme feelings of love that greatly overpowered those I felt for your father. But I also cried knowing that you would never know him. You would never know any of your family. We were our own family; I was all you needed and you were all I needed.  
  
I named you Andrew William. I had liked the name Andrew and you very much looked like one. And your middle name is after William Vaughn: he is your grandfather, your father's father. He was killed when your father was eight years old by my mother. Yes, I know you thought my mother died when I was six, but it's a **very long** story which you simply must ask Grandpa Bristow about. If I know you well, which I believe I do, you must be freaking out over your grandmother, but please save your shock for later. We have much more important matters to discuss.  
  
Do you remember the day you met your Grandpa Bristow? I doubt it, you weren't even two yet. Dad was the only person who knew where I was transferred to, and he finally decided to give me a surprise visit. I think the surprise was more on him upon finding a toddling grandson who was the spitting image of a Senior Officer back in Los Angeles.  
  
But he never told anybody about you, as I made him promise. I made him swear never to say anything to your father. He never did, and I'm not sure he ever will. But Grandpa would come visit us at least once a year.  
  
You always grew excited for his visits, and you brought a side out of him I never thought existed. Grandpa is actually quite menacing, I hate to break it to you, dear.  
  
Even without him around you were a happy child. You thought I worked for a travel agency and you thought your father was dead. Now, my CIA office posed as a travel agency, so I knew where that lie came from. But as for your father, that was a conclusion you drew for yourself. I simply... Never bother to correct you. But he may as well be dead to us; he didn't know of your existence or my whereabouts, and that was the way I intended to keep it.  
  
Andrew, this may sound odd, and don't take it the wrong way, but I decided you were the love of my life. I loved you with all my heart and soul, and I cherished every hug and kiss you gave me. To this day I relish in the memory of them.  
  
You were always the best kid. You weren't loud, you were sweet, you obeyed me. The ladies at church called you that good little fella. But as soon as you hit thirteen you were a struggle. You became stubborn as a mule and argued absolutely everything I said. That week you** insisted** that I call you Andy nearly drove me insane. Even though you knew I'd never give in, you persisted until I grounded you. And do you remember what you did!? You flashed me a classic Vaughn smile and said, I was just kidding, Mom, and scampered off to your bedroom to blare your music. I couldn't ground you after that. That Vaughn smile always made me melt. Your father could pull a number on me with that and his eyes, your eyes. Michael Vaughn; your father's name is Michael Vaughn, have I ever told you that?  
  
I cried so hard when you graduated high school. Grandpa came for that, remember? He held my hand the entire ceremony and took all the pictures because I was a massive case of waterworks. That last summer you were home I wanted to make memorable. So we toured Europe and Asia and had a blast. I know I told you that it was for your experience before college, but it was really me being selfish. I knew I'd have to give you up and this was my last resort to squeeze out everything we had left. And it was the best thing I ever did.  
  
Finally the day came when I had to give you away to some Ivy League school. What was it called again? Harvard? I'm just joking. You only reminded me what college you would attend twice a day for a year. That first year away was the most difficult. I must have cried almost every day for the first half of the semester. I'd anticipate the holidays you could come home and visit, eager to hear this story and that story or hear of the girl of the month.  
  
It was your junior year when you started raving about this Jenna girl. The way your face lit up when you talked about her and how your smile never faded... I knew she was the one for you. And it didn't surprise me a bit when you proposed to her that night after your college graduation. You two married quickly; I had never seen you happier. Prior to the wedding you both lived with me for a while, which couldn't have made me more delighted. I loved having you around again, and Jenna was such a sweetheart, I grew to love her like the daughter I never had. You are both so lucky to have found each other. At your wedding I cried like a baby. Not because I was losing you for good, but because at last I saw what a wonderful man you turned out to be. You were perfect: smart, kind, loving, funny, serious, a beautiful person. It hit me that I did that, I raised you, I took a tiny, innocent baby and molded him into a man all by myself. You are my true pride. You are my biggest accomplishment.  
  
You and Jenna moved to Washington DC, her hometown, and everyone was genuinely happy. On New Year's that year you and Jenna came to visit. You had news, you said. I was expecting Jenna to be pregnant, that maybe you were moving back here, you were going to law school, anything but what you actually had to say.  
  
I should have seen the signs; I felt so ignorant. You took all those college courses in languages and foreign affairs. You knew Grandpa was in the CIA and looked at him as a sort of father figure. And you had moved to DC. But still, I was utterly shocked when you told me you were recruited by the CIA. I threw a fit. I yelled, I screamed, I refused to let you go through with it. You furrowed your brow deeply in confusion – you looked **just** like your father – and you couldn't grasp why. We argued stupidly for a while before I came clean, telling you how I'd always covertly worked for the CIA, how that was why I left Los Angeles, that your father was alive...  
  
After that we rarely spoke. Only forced conversation. I tried to explain it all to you on several occasions, but you wouldn't hear of any of it. You entered the CIA against my protests and our relationship crumbled beneath us.  
  
Then, about a year ago, I started feeling strange pains in my abdomen. I ignored them for a while, but finally they became obnoxious and I went to the doctor. Everything changed yet again: I had colon cancer. They started treatment immediately, but I slowly grew worse and I was hospitalized shortly after. You and Jenna visited me often. You and I didn't speak much, but your presence was enough.  
  
My cancer was hard on all of us, I am sure, but we did have our good times. The closest thing to a happy moment was when you told me Jenna was pregnant. In fact, I'd say we were happy. You certainly were the most rambunctious of the three of us. But who could blame you – you always wanted to be a father after never having one. We celebrated for a while, but naturally, I ruined it by asking if you planned to quit the CIA. You and I fought, and you stormed out in a rage. I only wanted you to understand how dangerous it was. I gave up on that life to raise you safely, and I wanted the same for my future grandchild. Jenna and I talked for a while after that. I knew you couldn't entirely hate me; she told me how the first thing you said when you found out Jenna was pregnant was, I can't wait to tell Mom.  
  
The cancer grew worse. The doctor gave me two months to live. As I'm writing this to you, it's been over four months since that day. I know that's something to be proud of, but I'm not getting better. When I'm not sleeping I can hardly move. I don't have an appetite so I barely eat. I don't expect to live to meet my grandchild. Andrew, I don't expect to live past this week. Yesterday was my birthday, I turned sixty-two. It's a strange feeling knowing you won't make it to sixty-three. But you came yesterday. You held my hand. I know we both wanted to say something but we couldn't. We didn't want to risk the argument, and I'm glad, because I got to spend a last quality moment with you, my sweet Andrew, my loving son. I decided to write this letter today because I may never get the chance to tell you the whole truth, but if you are reading this, you now know.  
  
You know that I love you more than anything in the whole world. You were the best thing to ever happen to me. The only regret I have is for lying to you for so long. If I could go back, I'd let you know the truth.  
  
I want you to know that even when I'm gone, I am with you. I will always be watching over you, Jenna, and the soon to arrive baby. I want you to know that I am horribly sorry for telling you about everything in the manner that I did. But mostly, I want you to know that I love you. I love you; I always have, and I always will, even after I'm gone. I love you.  
  
With love, Mom_  
  
The man feels a warmth cup his shoulder as tears stream down his face. He turns his head to find a woman; his wife. He had forgotten he told her how to locate his secret room. She sits down next to him and holds him as he cries, reading over the letter for herself. The man still weeps at her side, but he takes the letter and folds it preciously, his treasure. They sit on the couch a while longer, lingering in the silence. The man places his hand on his wife's pregnant stomach and finds the baby's heartbeat comforting. His baby, his daughter. He plans to name her Sydney after his mother.  
  
The woman lifts him to his feet, announcing it is time for the funeral to begin. He catches a last glimpse out of the window, the fog now cleared away. There rests a for sale sign outside his childhood home.  
  
They wander along the halls of the church until they reach the sanctuary. He is suddenly aware that part of him feels missing as he spies her in the casket. He drops his wife's hand as she takes a seat at a pew, and he steps forward. He think she looks peaceful and beautiful, and he leans down to give her one last kiss to cherish.  
  
The service begins, and the man remembers the day he last saw her. Her birthday, he held her hand, he told her how much he loved her as she fell asleep. He had wanted to say something but kept silent. He cannot help but remember how she said it would be their last quality moment together, as if she knew she would die.  
  
He remembers returning to the hospital the day after. He remembers a nurse walking up to him with a letter. He remembers falling back into a chair and crying. He does not remember hearing the words she's dead. He only remembers knowing them.  
  
When the service ends he stands and wipes his tears. He grips his wife's hand and greets the people who came to mourn. He is surprised to meet several people from Los Angeles. He sees his Grandpa in the corner where others offer him consolence as well.  
  
The people around him disperse, and he turns to his wife. My old house is for sale, he mutters. I thought... maybe we could buy it back. Raise our daughter here. I'll become an analyst.  
  
She smiles weakly and rubs his back. I'd like that.  
  
The man feels a tap on his shoulder and spins around to meet an older gentleman of similar height and build as himself. Are you Andrew Bristow? the gentleman asks, staring desperately into the man's green eyes identical to his own. Though he need not ask, he already knows the answer. I'm Michael Vaughn.  
  
Fin


End file.
